To the Bone
by tempestquill
Summary: Dean's darkest fears are realized as he finds himself losing his brother to the darkness and becoming one of the things he's spent his whole life hunting. How does he fight a hunger that is devouring him from the inside out, stripping him down to the bone...


Disclaimer: _Supernatural_ is the intellectual property of Eric Kripke and the CW respectively. Written for entertainment only. No infringement intended.

Warning: The following story contains situation of a violent and graphic nature, including acts of cannibalism.  
Warnings Included: Extreme gore, graphic violence, sexual themes, cannibalism, slash, dub-con, incest, dark themes, strong language, blood play, knife play, food play, sado-masochism, dom/sub, power play, angst, horror, drama, au, character death (minor), torture, psychological abuse, bondage.

Notes: And may I present The Cannibal Project in all of it's glory. This goes out to Lissa, who said it couldn't be done, and to my late grandfather, Joseph Moon Raven Blackfoot Blake, who shared the stories of his people, particularly the story of the Wendigo, with his wife, my lovely Noni, who shared them with me. The poem found after the story is a poem that is from my actual hand written journal. I don't write entries, I write poetry. I'm seriously tweaked. Oh and this was beta'd by a stunned Lissa, because yeah, I really wrote Cannibal!Kink.

"To the Bone"  
By C.K. Blake

There's something strange and electric flowing through his veins and his body arches up at the searing pain tearing into his side, and holy Christ! It's almost like he can feel the muscles and flesh re-knitting itself.

His body falls back against the bed, and he's breathing heavily, looking around the room wildly. He pulls at his arms but finds that his wrists are tied to the bed, and his legs are tied too. He swallows thickly, panic surging with adrenaline in his veins and damn he really hates being tied down, and the knots are good.

His mouth has a strange taste in it, and he licks his lips. His body stiffens, and his eyes fly open again, and he wonders when they slipped shut. He looks around the room and then his eyes fall on someone familiar.

"Sammy," he manages to croak.

Sam turns around and Dean Winchester's heart skips a beat at the blood smears over Sam's mouth, and suddenly he recognizes the bittersweet metallic taste in his mouth. He struggles against the ropes that have him tied to the bed as Sam draws closer, and he's never been afraid of Sam until this moment. Sam smiles widely down at him, a spark of madness gleaming in his eyes as he reaches down, runs a hand through Dean's short hair and shushes him.

"Now Dean, you took a hell of a chance getting yourself impaled on a pitchfork by a poltergeist. You're lucky I found you when I did. You're lucky I saved you. How can you save me from the grave? You do still want to save me, right, Dean? Isn't that your life long purpose? Protect Sammy, look after him, care for him, fucking mother him, but don't fuck him, because fucking your little brother is wrong. Even if he wants it. Even if he wants it almost as badly as you do," Sam says, flashing teeth in his wild, knowing grin.

Dean swallows thickly, and looks away, tears slipping from the corners of his eyes, because this is it. After months of looking for Sam it's come to this, and Sam is beyond saving, and Dean still doesn't think he can do it. Even if he manages to get free he doesn't think he can kill his own brother.

"Remember that promise you made? Look at me, Dean. Think you can save me? Think I want to be saved now? When I'm havin' so much. I'm not even human, not anymore. Maybe I never was. Think you can do it? Hell, you can't even get out of those ropes. You're too weak. Have to build your strength up. Give you the strength of other men to help you heal, because you're not going anywhere until I say it's done. You're mine and you can be just like me, once you build up enough strength to handle the power of the change. It won't be long. I might have to break you first, but I can live with that," Sam says, and he traces down Dean's jaw with the back of his right index finger. "You're so pretty. Should have broken free a long time ago, given into the shadows and the darkness, just so I could claim you sooner. Because you're mine, and I'm gonna prove that too you, as soon as you're well enough, broken enough."

Dean stares at his brother, because no matter what, that thing is still Sammy, somewhere. That thing is still his little brother. Oh God, how does he fix this?

He watches Sam carving into something with his favorite hunting knife, and his stomach churns as he hears the serrated edge of the blade sawing into something almost solid. Christ, bone. He swallows back bile, and Sam turns to him again, that same terrible smile on his face as he raises a brow and says, "Looks like I'll have to find fresh meat. This sweet little young thing ain't so sweet anymore. Terrible shame, she was more your type than mine anyway, though."

Dean is breathing heavily through his mouth as Sam goes into the bathroom, cleans up and then heads out of the door with a trite little wave. He lets out a sigh as the door closes behind Sam, and then he makes the mistake of breathing through his nose. Oh Christ the smell, tangy, metallic, hanging thick in the air and while it makes his stomach tie itself in knots, there's something almost seductive about it. So fresh in the air, but growing stale quickly, like the flesh it came from, it's getting cold, and when it's cold it's not worth…

He shakes his head violently to clear it. He can't think like that. Sure there's that taste in his mouth and his stomach is heavy with something he doesn't remember eating, but he's still human, and he has to get away before Sam really gets it in his head to start breaking him. Right now Sam is almost being…playful.

He knows the wounds in his stomach are gone, there are still some twinges in the muscles, but nothing he can't handle. He starts rolling his shoulders, and moving his arms, straining against the ropes. He arches up and pulls and something in the ropes give a little.

The harsh ropes begin to cut into his wrists, and his blood is hot and slick. He works his wrists in the rope and the blood makes it easier to slip his hands through.

After a few minutes he works his hands free. He gingerly rubs at his bloody wrists, but then he focuses on the situation. He makes his hands work to free his ankles of the rope. He then slips his feet into his boots, pulls a shirt on from the floor, and takes a knife from the table, one that is thankfully not covered in blood.

He looks around the room, the splashes of old blood decorating the walls like a twisted Jackson Pollock painting. He swallows thickly, and makes his way to the door. He takes in a few deep breaths of the fresh air, the only lingering scent of blood coming from his wrists.

He blinks, it's night, but everything seems brighter than usual. He looks around for the Impala, but Sam must have taken it. He makes his way to the open field next to the motel, and races through it.

His legs pump with adrenaline and that strange electricity in his blood. He's moving faster than he ever has in his life, racing through the field, leaping over the fence at the end of it and running, the wind in his hair and he's never felt freer, more alive, more alert. He's a true hunter now, and it's a powerful feeling.

He runs through the woods, his feet pounding, and he doesn't stop for at least an hour. He cocks his head to the side and listens carefully. He heads toward the east, and within five minutes he's at the side of the road. He follows the road, keeping close to the brush for fear of being found by Sam.

He finally reaches a sign, and his eyes widen as he discovers that he's over a hundred miles away from the motel where Sam had tied him up. He shakes his head, leans forward and braces his hands on his knees to catch his breath, although it's more a gesture of habit than necessity.

If he can continue a run like this he could make it to Bobby's or the Roadhouse by morning. He takes in a breath, and decides to go southeast. Bobby's had to deal with too much already, so now it's Ellen's turn.

Nearly five hours later he's a little winded, his face scratched and his clothes torn from all the running and keeping mostly to the woods. He bends forward to catch his breath and then a few moments later he stands tall and walks forward. He pushes the door of the Roadhouse open and walks inside.

The smells inside bring him to his knees. Stale beer, old blood, hazy smoke, fresh meat, the stink of old death and wood rot. He jumps at the feel of an arm slipping across his shoulder and the voice is worried and much too loud by his ear.

"Dean? Dean, honey? You all right?"

He trembles his eyes screwed shut and slowly he lifts his head, and meets Ellen Harvelle's worried gaze. He swallows and shakes his head. "I found him," he says, and his voice is hoarse and broken, then he slumps forward as unconsciousness knocks him on his ass, because the adrenaline has finally run it's course.

When he finally comes to he's lying in a strange bed, a normal thing, and on the plus side he isn't tied up. He is however very, very hungry.

He sits up and tries to swallow, but his throat is dry. He turns to his right and finds a glass of water on the small table next to the bed. He reaches for it, brings it to his lips and drinks. He makes a face at the brackish water, but it's cool and wet, and relieves the dryness of his throat, so he can't complain too much.

He surveys his surroundings with the careful eye of a hunter, taking in every detail, noting what could be used as a weapon and what could be used against him. At the sound of footsteps in the hall he eases back in the bed, so he can take his visitor by surprise. He lets his eyes slip shut as the door slowly creaks open.

He waits until the door closes behind them and they draw near. There's a strange prickling of sensation against his face, and he reaches out, his hand catching a slender wrist. His eyes pop open and he looks into the worried gaze of Ellen Harvelle.

He takes in a slow, steady breath, and lets her go, never taking his eyes off of her. She brings the damp cloth to his forehead and her tongue pokes into her cheek as she gives him an odd look and feels his forehead with the back of her hand.

"You're awake now, but it doesn't make any sense. You look like you're all right, but I swear you're burning a fever. Dean. I took your temperature after you passed out earlier, it was one hundred eight point six. By rights you should be dead, and even now, you're burning up. What happened? You said somethin' earlier. You found Sam?"

Dean nods and sits up. "Yeah. Or maybe he found me. It gets kind of fuzzy after the poltergeist that tried to gut me with a pitchfork. I remember the pitchfork sinking into my stomach and then I woke up in a motel room, tied to the bed, wearing nothing but my jeans. The wound in my stomach was healing itself, and Sam… Oh God. Sam. I can't. He's still my brother. I know Sammy's in there somewhere. He has to be."

"Honey, Sam's been gone a long time. Who knows what's happened to him, but if he did this to you, maybe it's time to let go. Right now you got yourself to worry about. Sam might be better off…"

"No! Don't you dare fucking say that. He's my brother! He's mine to protect, and I'll save him even if I die trying! He's all I have, all I've ever had, and I won't give up on him. I won't kill him either! That's not an option. And what the hell do you think he did?"

"Well, there aren't any marks on your body except for your freckles and the scars I already know about. There was no stomach wound, and the scratches that were on your face when you stepped into the bar were gone within ten minutes. I've never seen healing like that before. It's not natural Dean. Luckily I got you back here to the house before anyone could start askin' questions. How'd you even get here? It looked like you ran the whole way."

"I did," he replies.

"But that poltergeist job was well over five hundred miles away!"

"What can I say? I ate my Wheaties this mornin'. Or Sam shoved 'em down my throat. And God get me some decent water, this shit from the tap's gonna kill me," Dean says as he indicates the glass of water on the table.

Ellen's eyes widen. "Dean, that came from the Brita pitcher Ash bought. I changed the filter on that thing three days ago."

"What?"

Ellen looked him over carefully and then went to the window and yanked the curtain open. Dean threw his arms up over his eyes and turned away from the almost blinding light that filtered into the room.

"Christ, close the damn curtains! Trying to blind me?" he growls.

She takes in a shaky breath and does as he asks, but she's seen it. His eyes had glittered like an animals. "What did he do to you, Dean?"

Dean runs his hands over his short hair and shakes his head, before he slowly looks at Ellen and nearly chokes. "I don't know, but there was a body. Blood was everywhere, it was so fucking sweet, but it was goin' cold fast. When it's cold it's no good, the meat gets cold, dries out, and it's not worth eat… Oh Christ. He didn't. No…"

Ellen lets out a slow breath and looks at Dean, pity in her gaze. "There's no going back. Not once you get a taste. You know that Dean. It's hunger that devours. It never stops, doesn't go away. There's no way to satisfy it. You know what has to be done."

He shakes his head firmly. "I can fight it. Just long enough to save Sam. I'm a Winchester for Christ's sake. I'm stubborn as hell, I can fight this long enough to save my brother!"

"Do you think he would want to be saved, to go on knowing that he's done this to you! This is how it starts. Hell, you're already healing yourself, you can run over five hundred miles in a single day or night, or what the hell ever, your senses are sharper! You're losing your humanity! Whether you meant to or not, you ate human flesh! You're going to become the kind of thing we hunt."

"But not before I save Sam. You kill me if I break. You kill me if I try to… If I hurt anyone, but only then. Only if I break. Until then I'm going to find Sam. He's my responsibility and I promised him that I would save him, and I'm going to die trying. I mean it," he says with a conviction that shakes Ellen Harvelle to the bone.

"Fine, but you make a move to start munching on me or my customers and I'm takin' you down myself, and best not be mentioning this to Bobby."

Dean nods. "And one more thing, Ellen. Look out for Sammy. He's gonna be comin' for me."

Ellen swallows thickly, a chill courses up her spine, because if Sam can do this to Dean, then she's not all that keen on seeing him again.

Sam is all smiles as he leads the two girls to the motel room, a blonde for Dean, and a pretty brunette that promised to be a nice little dessert. As soon as his hand touches the knob, however, he knows something is off, that Dean is gone. He pushes his tongue against his cheek, but then his grin is back in place as he turns to the girls. It'd be a shame to let all of that young blood just go to waste.

He gets the door open, glad that they are too drunk to take much in. He pulls them into the dark room, then closes the door behind him. He pulls the deadbolt, snaps the blonde's neck and covers the brunette's mouth with his hand before she has a chance to scream.

He holds her firmly, her back pressed against his chest, his left hand covering her mouth, as he flips the light switch on with his right. Her eyes widen in horror and her screams are muffled by his large hand as she takes in the sight of the room, the old blood, the cold meat, and the bloody bed, which had held Dean.

Sam cocks his head at the blood stained ropes and chuckles as he runs his tongue up along the brunette's neck. She shudders and whimpers, her eyes squeezed tightly shut, her body going slack as she realizes that she will never set foot out of this room again. Tears burn down her cheeks and Sam shushes her, and sways in a twisted parody of a waltz as he guides her to the untouched bed.

"Easy there Jamie, the pain doesn't last forever. Eventually you grow numb to it. Come on, don't be like this. I thought you wanted to play," he croons softly against her ear.

She lets out a sob against his hand, her body quivering in fear, grief, and surrender.

"It's no fun to play if my toy breaks this early. If you make it fun, I might let you live," he offers, and runs his tongue, hot and wet, along the shell of her ear. "Consider yourself lucky my brother took off, he's recently developed a real appetite for sweet young things like you."

She whimpers against his hand again, and glances at her friend's lifeless body laid out on the floor, her neck at an unnatural angle, and she thinks maybe Allie was the lucky one.

"Now, I'm gonna take my hand away, and if you scream before I tell you to, the first thing I do is cut out your tongue. Understand?"

She nods firmly against his hand and he smirks.

"Good," he says, and then he pulls his hand away.

She takes in a deep breath, likes she nearly drowned and just broke the surface of an endless lake. He spins her around to face him, and he stares down at her, the fear in her wide brown eyes sends a thrill through him as he strikes, capturing her mouth in a kiss of tongue and teeth and madness. She squeezes her eyes shut, and then her foot comes down hard on Sam's, and she bites down hard on his lip and shoves him away.

He's taken by surprise and this gives her enough time to dash to the door, but Sam's legs are long and he's got her trapped before her shaking hands can turn the knob on the door. He puts a firm hand on the door and bodily presses her against it.

He bends down, his lips brushing her ear as he says, "Now that's what I'm looking for, that fight to live. I'm gonna break you, sweet heart. Too bad my brother isn't here to eat you alive, but I can make do for now. I bet your insides are just as pretty as your outsides."

She lets out a scream and he grabs her around the waist and throws her on the untouched bed, and then he makes his move, pounces, and lands for the kill, but he's going to take his time, toy with her until she begs for death and then he's going to wait until she doesn't see it coming, but he will make her feel it. Oh yes, that's the best part. Making her feel it.

A week, a whole week, since being impaled with a pitchfork, Sam finding him, feeding him, and running over five hundred miles away to escape. Dean knows he should be exhausted, should be recuperating, but if anything, he's restless.

He knows Sam is coming, and he's not running anymore. This is going to happen. He's hoping it's soon so he can get it over with, because he's hungry, and it's burning in his veins, tearing at his stomach, and driving him mad. Nothing makes it stop. He eats constantly, the meat hardly hits the grill or the skillet before he's hungrily ripping into it, but animal blood is thin and tinny compared to the rich sweetness of human blood, and the succulent tenderness of young, warm human meat. Meat that is fresh off the bone, ripe with the scent of still warm blood.

Dean is nursing a cold beer, that is stale and tastes watered down, even though he's drinking it straight from the bottle. Hard whiskey is hardly warm as it slips quietly down his throat and settles hollowly in his belly.

He takes another long pull from the bottle when a spark lights up his spine, and he knows Sam is close now, can feel him, a collection of shadows with a single source, his brother.

It's subtle at first, the warm wind that stirs in the bar, almost like a ceiling fan has been turned on to start circulating the stale air, but the fans aren't on.

The wind grows stronger, the collar of Dean's jack lifting up and flapping a little, a hat blowing off of the head of one of the Roadhouse's patrons, and Ellen and Jo's hair whipping back. Dean stands up, shoots warning looks to Ellen and Jo, telling them to make a run for it, because this is it.

Ellen makes a grab for her shotgun, her hand closing around it, and Dean doesn't have time to tell her that it's too late for that as the doors of the Roadhouse blow off of their hinges and Sam steps into the bar, the wind circling around him, making his clothes and hair flutter wildly.

Sam surveys the bar with sharp eyes and a smirk. Several of the Roadhouse patrons draw weapons, hunters, each and every one of them, but this isn't their fight and they're going to die for nothing, Dean knows this, but he doesn't say a word to stop it. In fact he gets some satisfaction at watching Gordon out of the corner of his eye.

The man is licking his lips eagerly, and Dean wonders if he's aware that he's running straight for death. There is no escaping the maddening darkness that has consumed Sam. Still Dean knows that there must be a way to save his brother. It's a shame that some of the best hunters out there will die tonight before he gets a chance to make his move, to do his damnedest to keep his promise, but he can't be held accountable for the recklessness of others.

He's beyond caring at this point, and some part of him hungers for the smell of the raw power coming off of Sam in waves, and he anticipates the promise of blood, hot and thick, as it sprays the room.

The silence in the room is broken by the sound of Ellen pumping her shotgun and aiming the barrel at Sam.

"You're not welcome here, Sam," she says calmly.

He snorts. "You think that'll stop me? I've come for what's mine. He looks a little pale," he says, humor coloring his voice as he turns his sharp hazel gaze on Dean and continues, "Haven't been eating well, Dean? I'll just have to fix that now, won't I? I'm thinking a little fresh meat will do you some good."

"No," Dean replies, and gets to his feet, his green gaze locks with Sam's hazel eyes, and he says, "This isn't you, Sammy. Fight it. I know you're still in there. Fight this, and be my little brother again. I made a promise, and you know me kiddo, I don't break my promises."

Sam cocks his head, then lifts his hand and Gordon sails across the room until he's pinned up against the wall, his hands clutching at some invisible force wrapped around his throat, and his eyes bug out as he chokes and gasps for air, clawing more desperately at the unseen force.

Chairs scrape in the room and the hunters and patrons with sense start edging towards the door, but it's too late as the doors right themselves, slam shut and then lock.

"Looks like we have quite a buffet for you to choose from, Dean. Feeling up to some dark meat, because if you are, I'll ease up. It's so much better when their awake, makes them taste a little fresher."

Something claws into Gordon and he let's out a hiss as his cheek is torn open and the fresh scent of blood over powers the other smells in the bar and Dean's mouth waters and his knees give beneath him because he's weak and in agony from the endless hunger, and that smell, it offers relief, strength, speed, life. Pure, sweet, endless life.

"Someone looks a little hungry, but I can understand if you can't stomach Gordon. He looks a little tough. So maybe blondes are more your catch," Sam says, and then Jo Harvelle is lifted from behind the bar.

Jo is kicking and screaming and cussing up a storm, and Ellen takes aim, the butt of the gun firm against her shoulder as she prepares to fire. The gun is torn from her grip, pointed at the ceiling, and then it goes off, blasting a hole in the roof.

"Now that wasn't very nice, Ellen. You're supposed to be hospitable to customers. Careful or you might find yourself losing business with that kind of attitude," Sam says and actually tsks.

With a wave of his hand, Jo and Ellen join Gordon on the wall, hanging there by the strength of something unseen and ominous, struggling.

Sam surveys the room, sees the unkempt gathering of the usual patrons and a few hunters. He crooks his finger at a man with a scraggly beard, a bad left eye and a hollow look in his remaining good eye.

"Lonnie Rourke, why damn this ol' soul, thought you died chasin' after that thing that took your wife and daughter. It was a routine possession, and you chased the son of a bitch all across the country, till you got a taste for killing. Just can't stop? You kill the hunter's hunter. We don't appreciate that. Think of us as part of the natural order of things. We don't want the meek to inherit the earth, because that would be boring. Toys aren't any fun if they break easy," Sam says, and Dean wants to look away as Lonnie Rourke's shirt is ripped open, his chest exposed, and then something is splitting the flesh along his chest, and the man throws his head back and screams in agony.

Dean licks his lips at the fresh blood being spilled, the hunger burning in his veins, and his eyes follow the blood as it slips in warm streams from the wounds and down the man's scarred and weathered flesh, tough flesh, but full of strength, still warm with life.

Sam turns to Dean and smiles at him with a shake of his head. "No. He's old, got too many years on him. The meat's too tough, like jerky. You want something fresh," Sam says, and then Rourke's stomach is ripped open and the man screams, and the sickly sweet, intoxicating smell of blood filling the room is soured by the acid of Rourke's intestines as they slip slimy and stinking from his body.

Dean bends forward, his hands splaying on the dirty wooden floor of the roadhouse as he wretches up bile at the horrible scent that taints the blood.

The Roadhouse is filled with the screams of more men dying after that, their limbs ripped from their bodies, their throats torn open, guts ripped out, until the bar is a mess of blood and bile and the growing stink of cooling blood.

There are four left. Ash has joined Ellen, Jo, and Gordon on the wall, and they'd all been forced to watch the carnage.

Sam slowly approaches Dean, who is curled up on the floor, his hands clutching his stomach, groaning in pain from the unnatural hunger consuming him and the stink of cooling blood around him.

He's lying in blood, and his own bile, and Sam kneels down next to his trembling older brother, reaches out, tenderly draws his thumb down Dean's jaw, and Dean hesitates before he looks up at his younger brother and swallows thickly.

"I can save you from the hunger, Dean. You aren't strong enough for what I have in mind though. You'll have to eat before I can save you. You get to pick, three to choose from."

"Three?" Dean manages hoarsely.

Sam nods. "Gordon isn't good, he's poison. Sick with disease, slowly dying. He'll make you sick, but there's Ellen, Jo, and Ash. Take your pick, big brother, or I'll decide for you."

"If he's no good, why keep him alive?" Dean asks.

Sam grins. "You make a good point," he replies, and then Gordon is thrown across the room, where he hits the opposite wall spread-eagled.

Sam tilts his head thoughtfully and considers something for a moment, before a large hunting knife flies across the room and he catches the handle in his huge hand as he approaches Gordon.

Gordon slowly slips down the wall until his feet are on the floor, though he's held firmly, his back to the wall, by that powerful unseen force.

"I can't let you die fighting, Gordon, you're not honorable enough for that, and I can't take my time like I want to, because Dean doesn't have that much time. I want to be the one to break him before the hunger drives him mad. So I'll settle for quick and tasteless with you. That sound fair?" Sam says, his smile sickeningly reassuring like the old Sammy.

Gordon hocks back a good loogie and spits in Sam's face before he growls, "Fuck you."

Sam wipes the spit from his cheek and shakes his head. "So much for manners," he replies, and then the blade slices clean across Gordon's throat, a splash of the hot blood showering Sam. He wipes the blade on Gordon's shirt, and then turns back to Dean. Dean is gagging as the smell of Gordon's polluted blood reaches him.

"I told you. Poison. Now take your pick," Sam says, as he helps Dean to his feet and uses the knife to point at each Harvelle in a sick and twisted version of Eenie Meanie Miny Mo.

Dean swallows thickly and shakes his head. "No, Sam, these are our friends."

Sam's nose nuzzles into Dean's short hair and his breath is hot against Dean's ear as he teasingly replies, "All the more reason to have them over for dinner. Don't you think?"

Sam pulls back and spins Dean around to face him, notices the how Dean's pupils are full blown with the hunger gnawing away at him, and he knows there isn't much time, and the smell of the carnage in the bar isn't helping matters any.

"Let's take this to the house. Having friends for dinner requires a more intimate surrounding," Sam says gently, and a shiver races up Dean's spine, and he slowly nods before he shakes his head, that old Winchester stubbornness kicking in again.

"No," he manages, his voice dry and weak and breaking. "This is wrong. This isn't you, Sam. Fight this, and then put me down. Don't leave me like this. I wont' be one of the things we've spent our whole lives hunting. Please."

"I won't let the hunger take you from me, Dean. I promise I'll save you. I'll set you free from this, but first you have to realize that you're mine, body and soul. You are mine Dean, and nothing will ever take you away from me," Sam whispers huskily and his lips brush against a sensitive spot below Dean's ear, and Dean shivers in response, weak from hunger and the smell of cold blood, broken bodies, and ruined meat.

It's the smell and the weakness that gets to him more than anything, and Dean slips into unconsciousness, the last thing he's aware of is Sam's arms closing around him and keeping him from falling to the floor in the cold blood and ruined meat.

Consciousness is a relentless thing that slips along his weary body. With a lazy groan his head rolls to the side and he shifts on the bed, stretching his back a little as he bites back a yawn and slowly allows his eyes to flutter open. He stretches out a little more and rolls his head along his shoulders working out the kinks in his neck.

The bedroom door opens and he jumps a little, but settles at the warm smile on his younger brother's face. "Hey, sleepy. Took a hell of a fall. Been down for a while. Had me worried there, but you're too stubborn to stay down for the count. You're still a little pale. Bet you're starved too. Hope you don't mind. Ellen's puttin' us up for a little while. Here, have some of this, should do ya some good," Sam says and offers him the steaming bowl on the tray he's carrying.

He sits up in the bed and perks up at the warm, home cooked smell coming from the bowl. "Smells good," he says, his voice raw and scratchy, and he notices the glass of water on the small table next to the bed. He reaches for the glass, brings it to his lips and takes a sip as Sam sits on the edge of the bed and puts the tray into his lap. He must really be out of it to actually let Sam mother him, but he'll humor his little brother for the moment.

The smell of the stew in the bowl does something to him, and he reaches for the spoon on the tray and begins to dig in. The potatoes are cooked to perfection, the carrots add that little something extra, but it's the meat, sweet and tender and incredible that really makes the stew. Oh the meat…

It isn't long before Dean looks up sheepishly. Sam smiles at him, steps out of the room and brings back another bowl full of the amazing stew, and its after the second bowl that Dean looks up at Sam with a smile and then says, "Dude, I had the most fucked up dream, I swear. Shit. What the hell put me out of commission for so long? How long I been asleep? It feels like I haven't eaten in months."

"Your color's returning. That's a good sign," Sam says, and reaches out, his thumb and forefinger tracing down along Dean's jaw.

Dean shivers and cocks his head to the side, wondering what's gotten into his little brother. "Sammy?"

"Had me worried Dean. Almost thought I lost you. Can't lose you. You're everything. Maybe I didn't think this through all the way, but I've been lonely, wanted you back. I fucking need you Dean," he whispers, and Dean's eyes widen at the look in Sam's steady hazel gaze.

Sam takes him by surprise and within seconds Dean is pinned to the bed, beneath the weight of his little brother, his hands held above his head as Sam leans down, their faces scant inches apart, their breath mingling. Sam lowers his head, his nose nuzzling Dean's cheek and he presses a chaste kiss at the corner of Dean's mouth.

"You have no idea what you do to me, big brother. You've had power over me for years. Could break me with a look, take me at a touch, but you're too fucking stubborn and duty bound. All those years wasted, for what? I've wanted you for as long as I can remember, and I've noticed the looks, and before I left I saw your thoughts, your fantasies. Wanted me for so long, and I was right there, for the taking. Maybe you could have saved me if you'd acted sooner. One thing hasn't changed, though. I still want you, still need you, Dean. There's no changing that."

Dean shifts and pulls at his arms, his wrists still held firm in Sam's grip. "The hell, Sam?! Cut this shit. Let me up, or I'm really gonna have to kick your ass."

"Still don't get it, do you?" Sam growls, and then Dean feels the cool metal slipping across one wrist and then the other.

A jolt runs up his spine and he struggles, rocking and bucking up against Sam, and then as he notices his brother's arousal for the first time. He freezes and his eyes widen as he stares up at Sam.

"It wasn't a dream?" he chokes out.

Sam pulls back, a smug smirk on his face as he shakes his head. "Wasn't a dream. You've got a choice now, Dean. You choose to be like me, or you become a monster, a real nasty, bloodthirsty thing that can't think beyond the next kill. You're smart Dean. And there's really nothing to think about."

Dean forcibly shakes his head. "I'd rather die," he spits out.

"Too bad, because that's not an option," Sam replies as he slips from the bed and heads toward the door.

Once he's alone in the room, Dean wiggles, and struggles against the cuffs, but these aren't the standard cuffs. These things are made from some kind of special alloy, they're damn near unbreakable and he doesn't have anything to pick them with.

He stiffens at the sound of the door being opened and he wonders why he didn't hear Sam walking down the hall. Dean's eyes widen as Sam enters the room, and he's leading a silent and bloody Ellen Harvelle into the room on a leash. Dean swallows thickly as he watches the once proud woman silently cross the room and sit in the only chair in the room. Her empty gaze settles on the wall as Sam ties her down in the chair.

Sam leaves the room after that, but before Dean can think of something to say to Ellen, he's back, this time dragging a table behind him, at least the table explains what the scraping in the hall had been.

"Christ," Dean mutters as he sees something moving under the blood stained sheet covering the table. He can hear the grunts and growls of someone, and then Sam pulls the sheet back and Dean stares at a naked Jo Harvelle tied to the table and fighting uselessly against the bonds, howling and growling her rage against the gag in her mouth.

Dean expects Sam to step out of the room one more time, because someone is missing from this. There's one person not accounted for.

Sam chuckles, as he turns to Dean, obviously thinking along the same lines. "If you're wondering about Ash, don't. He was just the appetizer. You needed something to build up your strength for the big finale."

Dean chokes, and his stomach churns dangerously, threatening to bring the stew back up, but there's something else working inside of him now, keeping the meat inside of him, and Dean is finally faced with what he's becoming for the first time. He's accepting it now, and he hates it. He closes his eyes, slumps back in defeat against the bed, tears burning hot as they seep from the corners of his eyes and slip down the sides of his face.

"God, Sammy. What've you done to me?" he whispers in horror.

"It's what I'm doing. I have to break you before you can see. You're mine Dean, and you have to know that before I can save you, and I swear Dean, I'm gonna save you. I won't let you waste away into a mindless monster. Can't do that. You're so much better than that."

At that Jo makes a particularly loud noise and catches Sam's attention. "Now, for the main course," he says cheerily.

Sam walks around the table, so that he can focus his attention and every now and then look up to make sure that Dean is watching him. He picks up a knife from the table, and holds it up to the light. Dean's eyes follow the glint of light across the shiny, clean blade, and then Sam lowers the knife, trails it lightly along Jo's throat. She screws her eyes shut and tries to shy away from the blade, as it dips into the hollow of her throat, then continues it's descent until it rises up the curve of a supple breast, circling the nipple, and her chest heaves with breath as she whimpers and bitter tears squeeze out of her eyes and trail down the sides of her face to disappear into her blonde hair.

Sam lets the blade slip further down her body, toying with her, dipping into her navel, gliding across her hip, grazing her thigh, but never drawing blood. He works his way slowly back up her leg, and stops at her hip, and then he digs the blade in. Jo arches up, screams against the gag, the muscles of her neck straining with tension as Sam cuts away a nice strip of flesh from her hip.

Dean hears a strange muffled yelping sound and turns to Ellen. There are tears trailing her eyes and her mouth is open, the source of that strange sound, and Dean realizes in horror that Ellen's tongue has been cut out. He gags a little and forces himself to turn back to Sam just so that he isn't staring at the broken woman forced to watch her daughter being carved up by a young man she'd once thought of in high regard.

Dean watches as his little brother presses a towel against the wound in Jo's hip, and then Sam is approaching the bed, the strip of meat dangling teasingly from his fingers, a wide grin on his face as his hazel eyes lock with Dean's horror struck gaze.

Sam puts a knee on the bed, leans over Dean, dangling the meat in Dean's face, and Dean shakes his head violently, trying to ignore the smell of fresh meat and sweet blood, but the strip of meat is dripping more now, and blood lands on Dean's mouth, and his head snaps back, his resolve breaking, his gaze greedily following the fresh meat.

Dean's body shudders as Sam lowers the meat, the blood dripping hot onto his chest, and then the meat, tender and slick, sliding along his chest, the smell driving Dean mad with the hunger burning in his stomach and veins, his eyes following the meat.

Sam lowers his face to Dean's, and Dean's gaze shoots up and his tongue runs along his lips, and then Sam strikes, his mouth on Dean's, nipping, biting, sucking Dean's lower lip until Dean opens his mouth, nipping at Sam's tongue and then they're kissing and Sam gets a taste of Dean's hunger, and he pulls back, brings the meat to Dean's swollen lips, and Dean takes a savage bite, and lets out a long moan as the meat bursts on his tongue, the blood sweet and warm, the meat raw and tender.

Sam watches as Dean chews, and he pulls the meat away. He lets out a shuddering breath at the sight of those succulent lips stained red with fresh blood, and he bends down for a taste, and their lips lock again, the sweet metallic flavor of blood, and wild heady taste of Dean, and everything is so right.

He pulls back, and his eyes trail down his older brother's body and he smirks at the sight of Dean's arousal. He drags the meat along Dean's body, savoring the moans and whimpers crawling up from Dean's throat, and then when he tires of this, he ups the stakes.

The knife he'd used on Jo flies through the air. He catches it by the handle and trails the blade along Dean's flesh, tracing the blood trail along his brother's flushed skin, cool metal cutting through the warm blood but never breaking that sweet freckled flesh.

He circles the tip of the knife along Dean's nipple, first the left and then the right, lets the blade slide down the hollow of Dean's chest, dip into his navel and follow the line of hair trailing into Dean's worn blue jeans. Sam throws the knife into the wall, the hilt quivering from the impact, he looks up the length of his brother's body and their gazes lock as Sam undoes Dean's fly, and drags Dean's jeans and boxers down his legs, and Dean wiggles to help in the removal of the blood stained pants.

Dean's cock slaps his stomach; it's hard and aching. Dean is the first to break their staring contest as his eyes trail over Sam's body as Sam slips out of his shirt, playfully unbuttons his jeans, and slowly drags the zipper down, and then he's shimmying out of the jeans and boxer briefs, and Dean's breath catches in his throat at the sight of Sam's dick, hard and ready for action.

Sam moves like a predator as he joins Dean on the bed, crawling up Dean's body, nipping and licking his way up Dean's legs, a bite firm enough to leave a mark along Dean's inner right thigh, and then his hand closes around Dean's cock and he bends forward, his tongue flickering across the head, dipping into the slit, his eyes on Dean's face.

Dean throws his head back and arches his back in pleasure, a hiss escaping his throat, and as his back settles back against the mattress he thrusts, his hips jutting forward, and he struggles against the cuffs because his fingers want to bury themselves in Sam's hair and guide him into a steady glide up and down his cock.

Sam can sense the tension building in Dean and he pulls back, and his fingers find the meat again, and when his fingers are wet and slick enough, he lifts up Dean's thighs, parts them wider and his fingers trail along the crease of his brother's ass until he finds the opening he's looking for. He roughly slips in one finger, and Dean arches up, a cry escapes his lips, and Sam shushes him with his free hand, gently strokes his jaw, and bends down to kiss Dean.

"Relax," Sam whispers. "My turn to take care of you, because you're mine."

Slowly Dean relaxes and Sam moves the finger further inside, and then pulls back, gets a steady rhythm going, adds a second finger, hits Dean's prostate which gets Dean's dick interested again, and finally he adds a third finger and Dean is writhing against him and jerking against the handcuffs, almost to the point of dislocating his shoulder.

Sam pulls his fingers out of Dean's ass, coats them again with the blood from the meat, rubs them along his aching cocking for a moment, and then he shifts, the blunt head of his dick at Dean's opening, and he leans down, buries his teeth in Dean's shoulder and thrusts. Dean arches up and lets out a yelp.

Sam stops once buried balls deep and pulls back enough to look into his brother's face, and he sees a war of emotions going on behind Dean's eyes and something cracks inside as the tears slip from Dean's eyes. He bends down, his lips brushing along the shell of Dean's ear as he whispers, "Always loved you, Dean. Always. Now you're mine. Nothing changes that."

Dean gives a stiff nod. Sam's hand closes around Dean's cock, and as Sam resumes thrusting he jerks Dean's dick in tandem, and Dean writhes and moans at the touch, straining against the cuffs. Sam's thrusts are long, deep and hard, rough, with just the right edge of possessive and something below the surface, care, because while it's rough he's hitting Dean's prostate, making sure there's pleasure for Dean.

Sam can feel the beginnings of an orgasm tingling at the base of his spine, and his thrusts grow quicker, more erratic, his hand working over Dean like a marathon runner on his last mile. He bends down and his teeth sink into Dean's shoulder as he buries himself deep inside of his brother and comes hard, his body shaking, and his hand still working over Dean.

As Sam rides through the waves of his orgasm Dean stiffens beneath him, his head thrown back as he yells out, "Sammy!"

He comes hard, his body shaking more than Sam's had as he comes, his seed covering Sam's hand and coating their stomachs, and then he's still.

Sam looks down at his brother and watches as Dean's breathing evens out, and as he gently pulls out of his brother he realizes that Dean's out cold from the intensity of it all.

He gets up from the bed, cleans up Dean and then himself, and throws the meat to the floor, because it's grown cold. He goes over to Jo, and looks down at her. Her eyes are closed and her breathing is getting shallow. He runs his hand through her blonde hair, bends down, and his breath is scorching against her ear as he says, "He was always mine, you little bitch. Now you know."

His eyes flash amber for a moment as he pulls back, and he senses a rush of energy in the room, he turns to see Dean shifting and coming back to himself, pulling against the cuffs in vain. Dean's eyes slowly slip open and the haze of post orgasmic bliss washes away as their gazes lock, and Dean sucks in a deep breath and looks away, his body shivering.

Sam lets out a huff, snatches the knife from the wall, and slaps Jo's face with his free hand. She comes to with a start; her gaze unfocused until she sees the glint of the knife, and then he brings it down and her screams fill the air.

Dean turns to look and watches as Sam pulls something from Jo's chest, his eyes widen as Sam says, "Come on Dean. Just break a little for me! I've got my heart out on my sleeve. Okay, so technically it's Jo's heart, but it's the thought that counts, right man?"

He squeezes his eyes shut and the silence almost drowns him. Silence, why is that wrong? He turns his head to the right, his eyes slowly opening, and he sees Ellen, her eyes are glassy and staring ahead at the wall, old tear trails shining dully in the dim light of the room.

Sam approaches, and the smell of the warm, fresh meat draws Dean's attention and he turns to look. Sam holds the heart out in front of him. All Dean has to do is lean up just an inch or two and he can sink his teeth in that hot, sweet, fresh meat. Dean spares a glance at Ellen from the corner of his eye, sees her watching, but the hunger is too much.

He leans up those last couple of inches, the last of his resolve breaking as his teeth sink into the tender meat, ripping a chunk of it away, slowly chewing, savoring the flavor and swallowing with a moan. He's never tasted anything so deliciously sinful in his life except for Sam's unholy mouth.

Sam pulls the heart away, drops it to the floor, and at the sound of the wet plop Dean lets out a groan of protest and looks up in disappointment at Sam.

Sam runs his clean hand through Dean's short hair, leans down and whispers, "You're mine Dean, and now you're ready.

He pulls back, the knife flies to his hand, and he carefully wipes the blade on the soiled sheets until it gleams in the dim light again. He flexes his left forearm and brings the blade down across it with a wince and holds his arm over Dean's mouth, his blood dripping on Dean's lips and Dean opens his mouth greedily, drinking his brother's blood.

After a moment Dean's eyes go wide, his body seizes, shudders, shakes, trembles, his eyes slip shut and then his body goes eerily still.

The handcuffs around his wrists unlock themselves; the knife is yanked out of Sam's hand by some unseen force and flies into Ellen Harvelle's chest.

Her eyes go wide as the last bit of life slips out of them, and Dean's eyes snap open, they are amber and one blink later they fade into their usual shade of mossy green.

Dean sits up, wraps his arms around Sam, kisses him fiercely, possessively, and growls, "You're mine too, you evil son of a bitch. You're mine too."

End.

"Subtle Beauty"

There is a subtle beauty in tearing someone apart,  
Stripping away the flaws, flesh, blood,  
Straight down to the bone.

To watch them adapt to the exposure,  
To harden and grow cold.  
To see the anger and the vice  
Burning within shadowed eyes.

The skin becomes a flexible mask,  
Hiding the truth, the darkness, the cold.  
Smiles hold the illusion in place,  
And the touch of this flesh is so cold  
It burns,  
So hatred is mistaken for passionate lust.

The truth lies in the bone,  
For only the strongest survive  
In the shadows,  
Their bones unbreakable ivory,  
Pure and hardened while the flesh and blood  
Is slowly consumed by the poisons of passion,  
Emotion.

There is power and knowledge in bones,  
Bones that are not brittle,  
Easily bent and broken like a tender heart.

Shadowed eyes watch the ripping, tearing, exposing;  
Shadowed eyes that remember the journey,  
The journey marked and mapped  
Beneath the flaws, flesh, blood.  
The journey coldly burned into bone.

There is a subtle beauty in tearing someone apart,  
Stripping away the flaws, flesh, blood,  
Straight down to the bone.

-C.K. Blake

Please do not hesitate to review, it just might keep you out of the stew... :D


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